


Playing Easy

by orphan_account



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: Family Bonding, Family Fluff, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, THAT SOUNDS HEAVY BUT THIS IS A PRETTY LIGHT STORY DW, there are warnings in the beginning notes too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 16:51:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11166024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Whizzer, as a rule of thumb, doesn’t open the door of his apartment when he isn’t expecting anyone. So when someone gives three little raps on his door at four o’clock on a Sunday, of all days, he doesn’t even get up to see who it is.That is, until he hears a suspiciously young voice say his name- and not one of the fake ones he tells girl scouts when they knock, but his  actual name.“Jason?” The kid is at his apartment. And so is sunlight, post-circuit Whizzer’s natural predator, which he had been carefully keeping out of his tiny studio as much as physically possible.“Whizzer."...In which Whizzer's hungover, Jason is eager, and a resolution is made





	Playing Easy

**Author's Note:**

> hEYO this is my first work in falsettos!!! aaa I worked in a lot of hc into this so I hope it isn't hard to understand??? this was rlly just a spur of the moment piece lmao I hope YOU ENJOY
> 
> warnings for mention of underage sex and drug use, but nothing explicit at all dw

Whizzer, as a rule of thumb, doesn’t open the door of his apartment when he isn’t expecting anyone. Even if the person was knocking like mad, begging at your door like a dog, you just don’t _do_ that in Bushwick. The hangover from the last 24 hours of doing things he was probably (he wasn’t ready to say ‘definitely’) too old for didn’t help warming him up to people at his door, either. His own consciousness was punishing him for every mistake he’s made in the last thirty years, his legs are sore and covered a strange rash from either carpet or a spillage of _something_ he doesn’t want to think about, and he can feel the hard-earned Jewish guilt bubbling up inside him from a celebration of Pesach that could be called “unconventional” at best.

 

So when someone gives three little raps on his door at four o’clock on a _Sunday_ , of all days, he doesn’t even get up to see who it is.

 

That is, until he hears a suspiciously young voice say his name- and not one of the fake ones he tells girl scouts when they knock, but his  actual name. So it’s not Suzy Weaver who still thinks he’s called Mister Ichabod, no, of course it fucking has to be someone he actually feels guilty about leaving on a doorstep in Brooklyn, because God apparently _does_ hate the gays.

 

“Jason?” The kid is at his apartment. And so is sunlight, post-circuit Whizzer’s natural predator, which he had been carefully keeping out of his tiny studio as much as physically possible.

 

“Whizzer. Why do you look like you just woke up?” He says in lieu of a greeting, shuffling on the doorstep and not allowing Whizzer to use him as a shield from the light.

 

“Because I just woke up.” He says, voice more gravelly than he thought it’d be. Jason’s been to his apartment before, once or twice maybe. Whizzer shouldn’t be expected to remember anything the day after a circuit party, anyway. “What are you doing here, kiddo, isn’t Marv-” _Don’t do anything stupid, like stutter over saying his name-_ “Your dad with you this weekend?” _Shit_. Decent recovery, though, at least he can make himself think it’s a decent recovery if he ignores Jason’s cocked eyebrow.

 

Jason shrugs, like the adorable little asshole he is, and pushes his way into the apartment. “He’s busy, I’m bored, you’re the only safe thing in Brooklyn.” Whizzer tries not to let his heart warm at the vague, objectively false compliment. Jason just drops his backpack on the couch like he owns the place, making his way to the kitchen even though it hasn’t been stalk since March of _last_ year. “It’s dark in here.”

 

“Thank God it is. Speaking of God, Happy Passover.” He’s grateful that years of sitting in pitch-darkness during hangovers lets his eyes read the calendar pinned up on the (woefully empty) fridge Jason is rifling through. Either way, the holiday is the whole reason for his monster, ‘you took some _crazy_ shit’-level hangover. He’s not going to be forgetting the spirit of the season when it’s manifested as the pain in his eyes, ears, and ass.

 

“Chag sameach,” Jason says absently, the greeting polite and dismissive. The kid is too much like Marvin for him to bear, most days, rude but nice, pretentious but self-conscious, a pseudo-pseudo-intellectual. It made Whizzer’s head spin more than any rave drug could. “How do you have an empty fridge during _passover_?”

 

Whizzer snorts at Jason’s bemused expression. “I don’t think I’m so poor that God’s given me manna, Jason.” True to his word, Whizzer’s fridge is empty from anything edible, and has been since the blackout. You don’t forget the smell of spoiled cheese, milk, and meat easily,mind, and even though dry food is still an option the few cabinets are the same, sad story.

Whizzer’s not _broke_ , he just forgets to shop sometimes. And eat. And if he ever _is_ hungry, there’s a new meaning to the phrase ‘dine and dash’ that he certainly isn't above putting it to use.

 

“Seder was yesterday, though.” Jason says through a mouthful of wheat thins. Whizzer would be scared of the kid’s ability to sniff out food like a dog if he wasn’t also starving. Taking the box from Jason with gusto, he grabs a handful, nearly choking on the stale food when Jason asks, “Didn’t you get sent home with a mountain of leftovers?”

 

He shakes his head after recovering, voice even more hoarse than before. “Nah, kiddo. Didn’t go to my family’s, didn’t get sent home with shit.” Which is the full, honest truth. Whizzer hasn’t been any farther west than Jersey in a over a decade, let alone to fucking Nebraska, and he couldn’t be more fine with that. Honestly.

 

Jason doesn’t seem to be fine with that.

 

“How can you not go to your family’s on _Passover_ ? Even Dad’s drunk auntie Diana was there, and she was lost in Barcelona until last week.” Jason looked so genuinely confused that it almost made Whizzer laugh. Or cry. This kid is absolutely _ridiculously_ ignorant to the world at best, yet at the same time the most observant person he knows. It’s easy to forget that he’s only twelve, that Jason didn’t even know what queer _meant_ until his father turned out to be one. Whizzer ruffles Jason’s hair, much to his tiny, adorable chagrin. He really, really fucking loves this kid sometimes. Maybe all of the time.

 

“Well, kiddo, some people’s families aren’t as close as yours. Mine is one of those families.” He hopes the short, not entirely false statement satisfies Jason, even though he knows it won’t. His family isn’t close, that is, to him. They seem to have no trouble getting along within their boring, heterosexual bubble. Like expected, however, Jason’s brows furrow together as he tries to finish chewing the stale crackers he’s shoved down his mouth.

 

“Why aren’t you close to ‘em?” Jason asks, curiosity outweighing whatever sense of tact he may have miraculously inherited from Trina. Whizzer winces involuntarily, having hoped to avoid the long, all too memorable Gay Sob Story entirely. Jason may be frighteningly similar to Marvin, but they’re both different in one big way: Whizzer can never, ever lie to Jason, no matter how hard he tries. Lying to a kid, especially The Kid, feels somehow worse than when he lies about his age, or his hometown.

 

It’s weird to think that his ex’s kid knows more about him than said ex.

 

“Well, I mean- Jason, it’s a long story.” He says pleadingly. Jason just sits down, the little bastard, and looks at him expectantly, in a ‘I can wait’ gesture. Whizzer’s proud that Trina’s mannerisms passed on to the next generation, but it feels oddly reminiscent of the time he had spent watching a marriage fall apart at two in the morning after a very ill-advised, possibly-high-at-the-time escapade in her den.

 

Whizzer shudders at the memory, and relents.

 

“Okay, so. Um. Back in… ‘66, I think, my older siblings had all gone off to work, or something, so I was the only kid still left at home.” He looks up to Jason, hopeful to see any sort of understanding on his face so that Whizzer wouldn’t have to go on. The boy was just sitting there on his counter, though, hand in the box of crackers and head lost in thought. “Anyway, so I’m the only kid in the house, and my parents are off visiting my sister, so I think it’s safe to- y’know-” A helpful eyebrow wiggle leads Jason to scrunch up his nose, lips forming around the word _gross_ without any actual sound coming out.

 

“But my sister gets called back into work, or something, I don’t know, so they get back early and catch me with this other kid.” His grip on his own sleeves tightens, forcing out the rest of the story in one breath. “So my dad rips me a new one, throws me my suitcase the next minute, and I end up in New York. They don’t have my number, I don’t have theirs, the end.” He’s not quite sure his easy, ‘and it all worked out!’ grin quite fools Jason, but it fools himself for a moment.

 

Jason blinks twice, silence filling the apartment until he bursts, confusion and anger morphing his face into one bemused, righteous expression that Whizzer would laugh at if he wasn’t so tired. “Just because you- you _had sex_? That’s crazy! And- and unfair!” Whizzer winces at the volume, head pounding.

 

“It was more who I was screwing, but sure.” A shrug. “It was a while ago. I’m cool with it.” He was very much _not_ cool with it, but if he said it enough it became true. He didn’t need a bunch of loony homophobes who wanted him to go to NU, of all places, to drag him down. Jason still seems put out, though, crossing and uncrossing his arms nervously in a pale imitation of Marvin’s crazy arm waving at the slightest inconvenience.

 

“Still… why would they do that? Weren’t you like, seventeen?” Jason’s hurt expression really shows just how little he understands, or was told, about the world outside of a tiny townhouse in Queens.

 

“Oy, kiddo, _fifteen_ , give me some dignity. But yeah, I was young.” Whizzer ignores the other question, figuring that a twelve year old (and his own, still present, hangover) couldn’t handle an in-depth explanation of American homophobia at this time of day. “I found places to stay, worked crappy jobs, the usual.” Well, that was the PG way to say he slept with a thirty year old man for a year to stay in his Chinatown apartment, established himself well enough in the gay scene in order to _always_ have a backup plan, and possibly not-possibly played jailbait-y, twink bartender in a club only the oldest, creepiest closet cases went to. Playing easy for a whole ten years before he could afford an actual place of his own, but that’s neither here nor there.

 

“Oh.” Jason looks put out, probably having expected a more dramatic retelling of Whizzer’s Shitty Childhood. The kid perks up with some sudden realisation, though, not lost in thought like the older man across the room, and talks around a wheat-thin he stuck in his cheek and has been working on Whizzer’s entire speech. “Does that mean you get to finish high school?”

 

Whizzer flushes, ashamed with no real justification for why. He didn’t need the _entirety_ of Marvin’s family to know that, thank you, and he was not about to be condescended by a twelve year old. Whizzer _invented_ condescension. “No, I didn’t.” He snaps, terse. Jason seems to realise too late that _oooooh, yeah, that’s a rude thing to ask_ , and his eyes widen soon enough after that Whizzer almost feels guilty.

 

Almost.

 

“Sorry- it’s just I thought you had to take classes? To become a photographer, that is.” Whizzer relaxes his posture, which Jason copies as soon as he realises he’s not about to get yelled at.

 

“I know how to work a camera, kid, it’s not hard. All I had to do to get hired was send in a resume and forget to mention that my 4.0 was in high school, not college, and that the photography course I aced was at the JCC, not a school building.” He winks, grinning conspiratorially until Jason grins back, and already Whizzer’s heart feels lighter.

 

“You know, there’s a test you can take to get your diploma.” Jason says nonchalantly, chewing on old food thoughtfully. “The GED, or something. It’s just a bunch of reading and math, I think. You take it in November too, so there’s plenty of time for you to study for it, and everything!” The poor thing looks so eager that Whizzer can’t help but feel wrapped up in the excitement, tapping his lip thoughtfully.

 

“I know, I know. There’s not much else I could do with it- except to a school I can’t afford, that is, but…” Whizzer hums, seriously considering it. He’d be able to stop panicking about losing his job if his boss laid off the coke and actually looked at transcripts, for one. He wouldn’t have to deal with the snide condescension or worse, _pity_ , he remembers getting from everyone, close friends to census people.

 

He thinks about taking away Marvin’s favourite dirty insult, which is probably a very bad reason because it not only involves being petty, but Marvin as well, but any motivation is good motivation, right?

 

“...you said November?” Jason’s eyes light up like he just learned that he could eat proper bread early this year, and Whizzer can swear he sees him _vibrate_ in excitement.

 

“Yeah! Heather’s mom took it back when we were in fifth grade, and she’s a paralegal now, richer than her husband. You just have to study English, Maths and Science, and I think maybe a little History but that’s _it_ and- I could help you study!” Jason’s eagerness is seriously contagious, Whizzer finds himself leaning in like a child planning a candy heist even though the back of his mind is screaming _oh fuck no! Responsibility!_

 

“I had a 4.0 ever since freshman year,” He says, smug, and watches Jason stick his tongue out at him. “No joke, I was gonna be salutatorian!”

 

“Mendel says that salutatorian is just a consolation prize for parents mad that their kids didn’t work hard enough.”

 

“Mendel... is an asshole.” Whizzer says solemnly, letting Jason sprint over to the couch to get his backpack. When the kid laughs, it doesn’t sound like he last remembers it sounding. It’s not the childish giggle it used to be, but not the halfway point between awkward kid and gangly teen he remembers him having, either. Jason’s laugh is all grown up, he realises with a start, and suddenly Whizzer feels very, very old.

 

“Oh, crap.” Jason, rummaging through his backpack like an insane person, mutters. “It’s five already, I’m supposed to get back to dad’s soon.” He shoots Whizzer a wilting, Trina-like look, “I only see him for two days a week, and he decides to take overtime.”

 

“Sounds like a him thing,” Whizzer hums, trying to sound nonchalant even though his heart is fighting pretty damn hard to fall out of his chest and land on the floor. He didn’t listen to Gloria Gaynor loud enough to receive a noise complaint to embarrass himself in front of the kid of his _very ex_ lover. He barely registers Jason’s request to use the bathroom before he leaves, belatedly warning him to _not fucking smell_ anything he finds in there.

 

It’s been two years since he saw or heard anything about Marvin other than Cordelia’s rants over the phone and Jason’s offhand remarks, and yet the name still acts like a livewire, suddenly bringing Whizzer back to nine months of fucking, fighting, and the occasional moment of caring about another person. He knows that Marvin’s the one who should be grovelling for him back, technically, even if the time for that has loooong since passed, but yet _he’s_ the one who has to pull himself away from the phone during nights of drinking at home. _When is he going to get the fuck over this?_

 

Jason comes out of the bathroom looking moderately scared, and Whizzer’s torn away from memories of 1979 to memories of January ‘81, where Jason had gone in to wash his hands and came out with ‘ _Whizzer, what’s a popper?_ ’.

 

Whizzer decides to head off whatever question Jason has for him this time before it can even be asked, pushing the kid towards the door and kissing him on the forehead before he can blink.

 

“But- Wait!” Whizzer opens the door back up, cocking an eyebrow. Jason grins, “Are you still gonna come to the baseball game tomorrow?” Whizzer relaxes, having expected a much less innocent question and mentally steeled himself for answering it.

 

“Of course, kiddo, wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He says easily, flicking him on the shoulder for his trouble. Jason does the weird little vibrate thing, again, like he’s unused to people actually _wanting_ to go to his shit.

 

“Cool! Hey, then I’ll ask my mom if she has any of her old textbook left!” Whizzer nods along even as he fears the conversation _that_ question will start. Jason nods back at him, smiling one last time before bolting down the steps, and Whizzer’s heart melts with how much he loves this weird, buzzy kid.

 

‘81 is going to be _his_ year.

 


End file.
